


a friend in the dark

by anonamika



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Blackgate Penitentiary (DCU), Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Comic Book Science, Drug Use, Epistolary, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Torture, Letters, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Post-Episode: s05e11 They Did What?, Season/Series 05, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonamika/pseuds/anonamika
Summary: Shortly after Reunification, Ed and Oswald are arrested and sent to Arkham and Blackgate, respectively. When Ed breaks the radio silence with a letter, the lines between said and unsaid start to blur.Or how Dr. Quinzel’s unorthodox therapy gets Ed more sun, feeds Oswald’s plants and helps them rebuild more than an empire while incarcerated.





	1. Wednesday October 15

**Author's Note:**

> After I finished laughing angrily about the ridiculousness of them being separated for ten years, this happened.

Wednesday October 15

Oswald,

It’s been storming all day but if it clears up, we might get half an hour outside in the yard. Dr. Quinzel thinks there should be more outdoor time for the inmates and there are semi-significant bets among the guards on her fighting the higher-ups for a garden. Bizarre. She’s read our files. Don’t think I'm getting any gardening tools anytime soon.

She’s kind, I suppose, especially compared to the other staff, the thugs and personality deficits that they are. Far better than Strange, of course. I even almost believe her when she says this exercise will be completely confidential. Our eyes only. But she’s ambitious and idealistic. Which we both know can prove a stupidly dangerous combination in Gotham. She uses the word “recovery” without any irony and even sees that vegetable Jeremiah for one-one-sessions. I wonder what they talk about.

I apologize, I’m rambling.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything down.

Dr. Quinzel has assigned us a therapy assignment, which technically is a condition to maintain the “outdoor privileges” I mentioned. I doubt that was _her_ decision but compromise is the lifeblood of progress in this hellish place. She gave us a choice—which I suspect is a variable in her experimentation with treating the criminally insane—between journaling or writing a letter to someone. This someone could be real or imagined, she said. Ha!

I try to keep busy but all I have are my thoughts and the white pills they watch us swallow and the mirror in the men’s room so the thoughts go round and round, even when I dream. I have no desire to see them repeated back to me on paper. Boring!

How is your eye? What is your cell like? Is the food better than the slop here? Even with the donations from the Wayne foundation after Reunification, it’s all canned or frozen, bland or chemical. Except for the almost fresh parsnips this week but I find them disgusting and a health hazard besides considering the hygiene-ignorant brute manning the serving station. I’d kill for an espresso or real butter on real bread. (Just a figure of speech, Doctor, if you read this after all.)

I would appreciate a response. The return postage is already paid for if we write to “real” people and anything mailed with the enclosed label will supposedly be sent directly to Dr. Quinzel to hand out, away from prying eyes. She will be over the moon if this pet project of hers has any rate of success, which means time outside and away from the shrieking and stink of the recreation room. And maybe even extra jello, a means to a friend in the cafeteria.

I know the value of friends in the dark.

E. Nygma

  
**_My life can be measured in hours, I serve by being devoured.  
Thin, I am quick. Fat, I am slow. And wind is my foe. What am I?  
I burn end to end, the nights break and the days bend. What am I?_**

_**Do you still believe in ghosts, Oswald? —R** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of that mysterious postscript riddle from https://www.braingle.com/brainteasers/589/wind-is-my-foe.html
> 
> Your comments and thoughts are welcome and appreciated ♡


	2. Sunday October 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald has a new pen and writes back.

Sunday October 19

Dear Ed,

Thank you for your letter. It is so good to hear from you, even if the circumstances of your writing are all but gentle coercion. I feared that any correspondence between us would be closely monitored by the forces that moved against our plans. Indeed, other missives I have sent out in hopes of reaching those not fooled by Jim or that showpony Dent’s vendetta against us have yet to be answered. Yet, the fact that I received your letter at all and without any obvious signs of censorship or tampering gives me hope that Dr. Quinzel’s promise of discretion, if not outright privacy, will be honoured. I hope that you receive this letter in a similarly immaculate condition, and the fresh air and jello that is your due.

My eye is well enough, continuing to heal at what even the seen-it-all doctor here says is a remarkable rate. Maybe it’s all the dips in the river? There’s something about the water here, my mother always said.

Don’t blame yourself, Ed, if you’re thinking of blaming yourself. As soon as the ridiculous charges against us have been put straight, I will have Strange tracked down and see if he can put his sick gifts to use and furnish me a new eye. I was thinking something in blue.

Though, as fate would have it, the eye or lack of it has earned me some measure of respect. Some of these actual criminals still hold onto old, misplaced and, frankly, overblown grudges but to see it and the scarring makes them remember that the Penguin stood for something while they almost scurried to safety with the injured and the children. Or only came back when things were safe like the cowards that they are.

My cell is a box of metal and concrete with a toilet, a sink and no sense of privacy but there’s a window that looks out at the rec yard and fences. I also have a metal table where I’m writing this letter. There was some skirmish in the women’s wing and we’ve been sent to our cells hours before the standard lights out. Luckily, they’ve left the lights on in the hall, no doubt to prevent a riot at being herded in here halfway through some sports event on the rec room tv, and I have no cellmate to complain of the scratching of my pen. It’s a sharp little thing I traded three cigarettes for. A steep price but it also served as a good lesson in feeling my way through the threads that make up this particular web.

The smell of sweat, old blood and bleach seems to be everywhere in varying, awful degrees. Even the burnt coffee they serve leaves the taste of pennies in one’s mouth but the caffeine gives me clarity. You know, there was a time where I hated coffee and now, I look forward to the rush of even the instant swill.

The food, you may be glad to hear, is not that much better than Arkham’s fare. Canned and frozen, of course, and miserable powdered items that have no business being associated with the words “milk” and “eggs”. There is coleslaw that I’ve seen cut out of vacuum-sealed bags marked with labels for mainland relief, which they mix with a slop they call “dressing-based sauce”.

I would do horrible, non-figurative things for cold gin or chocolate cake. For now, there are the delightful options of the noxious prison wine some Royal Flush degenerate has been making in the upstairs bathroom and the pudding mix sachets at the commissary. Of course, it’s criminally understocked and woefully managed. Despite my verifiable credentials of managing a range of clubs and, at one point, _the whole damned city_ , I’ve been relegated to the laundry room for work assignment. Loading and unloading sheets and uniforms is repetitive, monotonous work that does nothing for my leg, brace or not, but the roar of the machines are not so loud that one doesn’t hear the most interesting conversations.

To answer another set of questions, though I’m not sure if they are yours (or...his?), I believe the answer to your riddle is 'candle'. And yes, I do still believe in ghosts. I've seen my mother in my dreams. It is painful and wonderful, and always portent somehow. I like to think it's her watching over me through the veil. She came to me the night before I avenged her, you know? Now, I see her taking tea at the manor and laughing as someone plays the piano. In the good dreams, anyway.

What do you see in the mirror in the men’s room? If you’d rather not talk about that, I’ve always wanted to ask, what was your mother like?

You need not talk about that either.

I fear I have written too much and yet said nothing at all. The days bleed together, feeling more like periods of waiting and watching and sleeping. Though the writing is a welcome relief. And I do so like this pen.

How is the yard? Any further word on a garden? Have you had sessions with Dr. Quinzel? Well-intentioned or not, her eagerness to “rehabilitate” even the likes of Valeska makes me wary of her prodding at your brilliant mind.

Oh. 

The lights just went off. The men are buzzing like angry hornets and the guards have started clanging at the bars with their clubs for quiet. I have some moonlight but it’s wiser to end here, lest this get confiscated if a guard is in a mood.

Remember our pact, Ed. Together.

Your friend, in the dark and beyond it,  
Oswald Cobblepot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oswald is a verbose little shit but this was fun. Imagining them waiting for these letters is the worst and the best part of the process. Your comments and thoughts (and analysis oh my god, I love you Gotham fandom) are, as always, so appreciated ♡


	3. Monday October 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quid pro quo, Eddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up 6 months later on a unicycle, on fire* RL has been all sorts of hell but here we are, folks, trying to hang on and hang in. Hope everyone is keeping safe and connected in these dark and strange times. And writing more letters 👀 I know I am. Enjoy 🖤

Monday October 27

Oswald,

Letter, air and jello received, in their promised conditions, with thanks. 

More importantly, in the grand scheme of things, Dr. Quinzel was in a good mood.

This morning was our first one-on-one session. I thought she might want to talk about, well, any or all of the following:

A) Old news: Officer Dougherty, Miss Kringle and Pinkney (note, that I was legally cleared of these crimes)

B) Gotham’s lacklustre luminaries (they had it coming)

C) Haven, since Dent so enjoyed hitting the jury over the head with it (using “poor innocent souls” exactly four times in both his opening and closing arguments, jeez!)

D) Any other reason why I’m rotting here on the orders of our golden commissioner

Final answer? 

Trick question apparently! None of the above!

She just wanted to talk about the letters.

She even attempted to answer the garbled riddle I suspect you received, based on your correct answer to an old favourite. Her guess was “fly” which was interesting, if incorrect.

You might be thinking: she read them after all.

No. The letters go to her mailbox directly and she brings the delivery cart down herself. The caveat of compromise is that she opens the envelope in our cells in blue gloves with a butterknife, does a check for anything the machines might have missed, and an armed guard is in the room with us. If the letter passes—and yours did, with flying colours, well done—she puts it back in the envelope and puts that down on the table. I have to stand absolutely still in one corner in my cell from beginning to end of this whole rigmarole. I get to read the letter when they’re gone at least.

Yes sir, no sir, three bags full.

So. How did she know about the riddle if she didn’t read the letter?

Well, I told her.

I asked her to consider reducing the dosage of enforced medication. What I see or don’t see in the mirror and now, my fumbling grasp on what I remember writing down, is compounded by the pills. And how would that help my capital-P progress?

She made a pretty convincing show of thinking about it. I think her concern was genuine but there was a glint in her eye. It said that she knew that I knew that there would be a price to pay. And there was: she’d bump down the dosage by a quarter if I discussed the letters. Oh sure, there was some laughable confidentiality bit and of course, of course, I could refuse to answer any questions I wasn’t comfortable with but, if I “put a good foot forward in my therapy”, she saw no reason not to accommodate a patient’s request for specialized care.

She began by asking why I was writing to Oswald Cobblepot.

I wondered if she was kidding. Or waiting for me to incriminate myself somehow. She might have been on the mainland for a year but surely, she’d read the papers or at least looked at a case file.

She said that I didn’t have to answer if I was uncomfortable. A reminder or a provocation?

Either way, quid pro quo and two life sentences, what could it hurt.

So, I answered. It was obvious or should have been: who else would I write to and expect any sort of response.

I expected some ominous scribbling in her notebook or some remark about my “tone” but she simply nodded. Then she asked how it felt writing my letter.

Dr. Quinzel is using Strange’s old office but aside from the windows, it looks like a completely different space. Instead of that principal’s office monstrosity, there’s a smaller desk tucked away in a corner, leaving more room for an armchair and an honest to goodness chaise lounge. We started our session sitting—upright, thank you—but I wanted to, needed to pace and Dr. Quinzel didn't stop me. 

The filing cabinets are gone or hidden, replaced with a bookshelf almost overstuffed with thick psychiatry tomes, self-help moonshine and worn paperbacks. There’s no system to speak of, unless one counts memory (ha!), and my hands itch to put some order to it. On the walls, there’s amateur black and white photographs: blurry, smiling people in matching Hawaiian print; grainy pack hunters on the savannah. None of the frames have glass obviously so I can’t see Dr. Quinzel’s expression as I take in all the upgrades. Oh, and there’s patient art too, unframed, like Mitchell’s juvenile condiment puns (in ketchup, naturally) and Etchinson’s bleak haikus.

Dr. Quinzel repeated her question, sort of: How did I feel? 

I laughed.

She waited.

Did she want me to lie down on the couch after all? Doc, what does it all mean?

A quarter reduction in dosage, that’s what.

How did I feel, huh?

Like I was sending out a message in a bottle from some damned shore. Maybe you wouldn't receive it all. Or you would and wouldn’t have a good reason to respond.

Guilt it a useless emotion. Can’t change the past. I can feel—responsible. Haven I lay at Strange’s bloody feet but your eye is gone, Oswald, because I didn’t act or think to act fast enough. You said it was “the least you could do” but I still don’t understand it. I don’t understand your talk of fate and pacts either though it all seems to blur when I try to recall it.

I’m no use in a fog and it’s all been a fog lately.

And that day in ~~Jim’s~~ Gordon’s office, before the Army and the grenade, you spoke of legacy. What is legacy, what is life without freedom? I should have seen Gordon and Dent’s trap for what it was at least, foreseen this. And I lost your dog and let that woman get away with the treasure. Maybe I was useless before the fog. 

Your caution ~~was~~ is noted. 

I kept it vague as I could and didn't blather on in the session like I am here. Guess it's easier to write this sort of thing down than to say it out loud.

Dr. Quinzel then asked how it felt receiving a letter, despite my apprehension.

The days here are grey but your letter is a window into a technicolour world. Or at least a world beyond Mendel and Jorgie’s contest to eat the most checker pieces before a guard puts them down with good ol’ excessive force. A prison is a prison, I know that, but my mind’s felt like a room gathering dust and I’ve only just remembered to let in some sun.

Dr. Quinzel seemed pleased and curious when I offered to tell her the riddle. She made her attempt to guess it and then offered me half her croissant. There was a staff breakfast and someone from the advisory board was footing the bill so there were extras, apparently.

I tried my best not to scarf it down but I think I came off half-starved. Well, I might as well be! It was delicious, flaky and buttery, but a little dry. I’d swear she got it from that frou frou place by Robinson Park—Empire & Sons? Sun? They always had their heat lamps on too warm. Surprised it was rebuilt after the salt and burn of Ivy’s territory but I guess location, location, location.

Before she could buzz for the guards, I asked Dr. Quinzel for a copy of the Gazette.

My mother used to read the morning paper for us at the kitchen table sometimes. She had a very musical voice and would even do different voices for quotes and the funny pages. It was something she learned in finishing school.

My father found it charming. Except when he didn’t. “How can you finish what you never started, Eddie?”

He

—

Here you skip a line but I skip four days. 

Four days of a quarter reduction in dosage. My head is starting to feel a little clearer.

Dr. Quinzel stopped by. She noticed my “sour puss” at group yesterday and thought it was about being denied the Gazette, but later checked her letter lockbox and saw I hadn’t sealed my envelope. In protest! I hadn’t finished it in the foggy block between group share aloud and lunch, and I wasn’t about to sign and send an unfinished letter.

We’re not allowed to take paper or crayons out of letter writing group. But, Dr. Quinzel has made a sort of exception. As I thought she might. 

So, I’m allowed ten more minutes to finish.

I am tempted to go back and revise—and isn’t that funny, the ability to revise a conversation, though I guess this isn’t really a conversation--but she’s waiting for me to finish so she can mail out all the envelopes. She’s standing a polite enough distance away, with Officer Shelley and his tranq gun, but it’s not really privacy is it.

And yes, ten minutes. Nine?

Let’s see.

The yard is as fresh-ish as it will be. My glasses start to fog up if I sit too long on the bleachers so I walk a circuit on what might have been a basketball court now overgrown with weeds. With the rain, it’s been muddy, churned earth, dead leaves and cigarette butts on the pavement. The guards smoke (they’re not supposed to) but they resent the extra duty of watching Dr. Quinzel’s guinea pigs, even Officer Cash who’s the closest thing to reasonable.

There is a shed some way’s off in the north wing, cordoned off by another layer of electrified fences, in the gardens. I don’t remember there ever being a garden last time I was here but will keep an eye out as the cobwebs clear. Winter is coming soon but Dr. Quinzle seems determined.

The east wing is still closed for construction. There was a fire and then a flood caused by an attempt to put it out. Dumpler swore he saw a spectre but ghost talk has been vetoed in group thanks to Dr. Carver, the killjoy.

Speaking of awful doctors, I’m amazed you’d trust any part of your health to Strange after what he inflicted on you in Arkham, and really, everything he’s done since. Then again, his ‘sick gifts’ are why I’m alive to write this and not rotting in a shallow grave in the Narrows. Not that I’ve forgotten how he meddled with my brain and made me a mindless pawn in a game against Gordon, of all people. Strange will pay for his crimes, against Gotham but especially against the Riddler.

I just wouldn’t hold my breath for a new, fully-functional eye—the optic nerve was burnt out, remember? Though I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get a consultation, especially if it’s healing well.

Prison cred is valuable, I understand, but your lack of detail about the wound makes me think you’re trying to spare me.

Well, don’t.

And as your field medic, I think I have the right to be kept appraised of the wound. So, tell me, is it tender? How much so? Have you been doing the exercises Dr. Thompkins prescribed? 

You didn't say anything about the pain. 

Do not drink the prison wine. Do you know about the botulism outbreak/hit at Blackgate 20 years ago? I imagine you’ve come across some mention of it, with your previous interest in Falcone family facts, but two words in case you still feel tempted: respiratory failure.

What have you heard in the laundry room? Rest your leg when you can, the brace is just that: a brace, a support. Commissary duty would be ideal, but I think your reputation precedes you there. Pudding mix is never as good as the real stuff but an acceptable substitute to chocolate cake. For now. I’m getting sick of jello. It’s always red and it never tastes like strawberries.

Coffee sounds like heaven. The new regime got rid of decaf too so there’s only herbal tea, lukewarm and watery. Nothing too hot lest I throw my cup at Tetch’s stupid smug face. The nursery rhyming is grating, especially first thing in the morning, but he's the only one who'll play chess in the rec room. He's even gleeful and rhymes about losing, the nut.

What threads have you discovered? Any players of note? Give me a lay of the land here. What happened in the women’s wing?

In my cell, I pace. And read your letter. It’s my only worldly possession, besides my glasses, and a window out of here. The guards are uneasy about me having it. Officer Stoker, a real piece of work, seems to be trying to find a way to confiscate it. He calls me “Riddleman” and smirks, like he’s the first person to come up with it. I imagine slitting his throat. I imagine the state of the throat if I had a lab again and could look at that smoker’s rot upclose. I can dream.

I did, last night. In the dream, I was ironing clothes for work the next day, at the GCPD, but instead of starch and laundry, it smelled like croissants. Woke up nauseous, and was glad to see that pot of weak tea in the caf. Nausea aside, it was the kind of mundane dream I used to find so frustrating, a dream about real life, but it’s better than nightmares or worse, dreams I can’t remember.

I’d pass on notes about makeshift weapons but it sounds like you’re well on your way. I hope the pen was worth the hassle. It definitely makes your writing interesting to look at. More interesting than my blunt crayon print, I bet. But! I can change colours. This is Aspargus. This is Maize. No, too yellow. Here’s Razzle-dazzle Rose and Dr. Quinzel just cleared her throat. 

Time’s up, so I’ll stop here.

Be careful, Oswald.

Suffer no fools.

E. Nygma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and thoughts, as always, are so appreciated ♡


	4. Tuesday November 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald tries a crossword, makes an acquaintance and remembers Edward the dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very happy belated Halloween to one and all. Every chapter is a push through everything happening IRL so, thanks for sticking around, hope you enjoy.

Dear Ed,

I’ve enclosed most of a copy of the Gazette from Halloween night here in our fair, wretched city. I don’t want to spoil it for you but someone left it in the laundry room so I’m afraid the ink has smudged off most of the beginning of an article about vampires. Or lawyers? Some sort of bloodsucker, if my counsel is any measure of the profession. The story continues into oblivion as the centre spread is missing, but I think you'll find that the rest is in quite good condition. Physically. As for the  quality of the journalism, well. I’d skip politics and sports unless there’s business for bets in Arkham too.

I’ve made an attempt at the crossword but my knee is bad with the rain and cold, and so walking is bad and standing is bad. Sitting is only marginally better. Even with a cigarette or two in the rec yard after breakfast to take the edge off, I don’t have much desire to squint one-eyed at small newsprint.

In any case, I was quite done at 12 across (Our Lady of Deliverance in Venice and “yessir”, 6 letters) but the number puzzles are all yours.

If my inclusion is against the rules, well, to hell with the the rules! Quinzel can at least let you read the damned thing before she confiscates it. I’ll have her know it took a lot of folding to make it fit in the one envelope, as per the rules of her little experiment. She does seems amenable to bending the rules, for you. 

For a price.

Perhaps you can suggest your usefulness to her little library. She’d have a system and you’d have access to reading materials beyond one dull letter. Well, two now. And I imagine you’ll go through the newspaper quickly too. Reading sounds far more pleasant than mucking about in the dirt or dealing with Tetch at any time of day. If Quinzel’s going to attempt ethics, she can spare you  that.

I think there’s a chess column in the newspaper if that’s any consolation. 

There I go, spoiling it again. Not another word.

Newspaper aside, I have been, shall we say, kept apprised of the days thanks to the efforts of correctional officer Samson. Every morning begins with him yelling in my face the exact day and time, and then announcing just how long inmate Cobblepot has left on the life sentences. I don’t know who he thinks I’ve killed but one day I will find him and carve the tallies into his red face, and it will be a good day. I hold this image in my mind as the days climb and it helps the rage pass. Thank you for the inspiration. I hope Officer Stoker finds his way to your metal table very soon.

There is a CO Stoker here. He’s not particularly sadistic but he also has an unblinking, reptilian quality that makes him unnerving at least, especially when he’s on yard duty. If there is a connection, I can find it, if you’d like.

I keep my head down and watch, listen. When Samson and his kind get rough and close, and they often do, I can  smell the brands of cigarettes they smoke and the cheap cologne the pimply one wears when a certain CO Jeong is on duty. I gather these threads close and examine them after lights out, and wonder how and when to pull.

It seems like you are gathering threads of your own.

It’s hard to think of the office you described being the same room as the joyless place from my own “therapy”. From what I  can remember anyway. With the experiments and the pills, some of it’s a bit of fog, yes. It was always too cold, I remember that, and smelled of jasmine oolong and shoe polish. There was bitter tea in a silver cup and that serene, mad face behind red spectacles. No photos though, that I can recall. 

The photographs in Quinzel’s office, can you make out any of the faces? Her name doesn’t ring any bells but a nom de guerre in Gotham is old hat. She could be from out of town too, one of the do-gooders sent to help with relief efforts. Dent is definitely making a play for DA this coming election, so she could very well be his creature. Do let me know if you discover anything in that vein.

You said that the filing cabinets may be hidden. Even with her…unorthodox decorating, I can’t see someone like Quinzel trusting them anywhere but her office. Behind the bookshelves perhaps? There’s more reading than the good doctor’s public collection, I’m sure of it. And it might help clear the fog that much more, having access to your case file and patient notes.

Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself in my scheming. Force of habit, with the everyday here. Quinzel denied you the Gazette, after all, so it’s probably best to continue treading with some caution.

Isn’t Etchinson that fellow that butchered and ate his triplet cousins? There was some occult nonsense, blood rituals and whatnot, but why one needs to complicate cannibalism is beyond me. I suppose everyone needs a gimmick these days. Are the haikus any good at least? I could do with poetry, even the bleak kind.

I have taken to stopping by the library. In fact, this is where I’m writing you. The light is gloomy and grey but it’s sunlight, real sunlight, and not subterranean basement glare, as in the laundry room. I can’t have a cup of coffee as I’d like while I write. Or a finger of whiskey. Still, quiet is enforced and with the constant buzzing of the doors and the fluorescent lights and the men, it’s a welcome change of scene. I can pretend I’m at the manor with said whisky and a roaring fire instead of here with rattling heaters and November gnawing at my knee.

Yes, my black pen is rather funereal for friendly correspondence, isn’t it? Just as I pretend I’m sitting in a study no doubt long since ransacked by some heritage committee, you will pretend I write to you in a deep burgundy. I recall an inkwell I knocked over at your hideout. Well, our hideout, in the end. The ink looked like a lovely wine and you were not impressed with the comparison or what it did to the schematics for a propeller. Or was it a rudder? You were quite furious with me until I found those cans of peaches. God, those peaches, the sugary, tinny syrup, good on their own and even better, somehow, with the pork and beans. A small feast surrounded by yours traps and my suitcases of ammo. Months in darkness. Well, no, there were candles and the fire that you fed with broken chairs and phonebooks. I don’t miss the food or the dead, dark skyline but there was a quiet peace to those days.

Or nostalgia is playing tricks on me again.

You used to read the morning paper, at the manor. Not with voices exactly but your impression of that fool Aubrey James was always spot on. Sometimes it was the only thing keeping me from falling asleep on my breakfast. The hours at city hall were ghastly, especially with the late nights of other business, but you always seemed very awake by the time I made it downstairs.

Your mother sounds like she would tell the best bedtime stories. Did she? Was she the one to teach you how to play the piano? Or did you have lessons?

Did she go to Sept Douleurs by any chance?

Mother cooked and cleaned for a family that sent their daughter there while they spent their winters in the South of France. It was prestigious and wildly expensive, which was interchangeable to Mother most of the time, though you wouldn’t know they were aiming for society-ready ladies with Miss Delilah as an example. She was a regular little delinquent who had no intention of being “finished”, by the nuns or by anyone else. She taught me how to play Chopsticks, I taught her to hem her skirt and she set my hair on fire, twice. I used to play her piano when she was at Dolores, as they called it, while I waited for Mom to box up leftovers and scraps for the rail-train home.

I've been missing her cooking dearly. Goulash, stuffed cabbage and this sweet bread she would make on All Souls Day. We’d light candles and weren't to do any work, which meant no sewing for her and no homework for me. I’d eat so much sweet bread and Halloween candy, I'd almost always be sick the next day but she would always let me and only chide me after.

One year, I asked her why she was putting out an extra place for dinner. She'd always done it and but something about the ritual — the piece of bread, salt, a glass of water — made me curious, even a little irritated. I was growing older and noticing all the little things that made me different from the other children. 

They were offerings, for the dead, a tradition from the old country. You were to go to graveyards too, to pay respects, refresh flowers and sweep away dead leaves. But in childhood, my father was a dashing sailor lost to the sea and all my grandparents perished in great wars and fires. And mother always found graveyards too sad and gloomy besides. Like she did newspapers and AM radio. She wanted to wrap us both up in wool and spider silk. Better fairytales than the harsh truth. That my father was a coward who’d lived less than an hour away all my life and had never tried to find her. Her one love.

She wasn’t right about everything but maybe she was right to keep his weakness from me. I was different, not quite myself after what Strange did to me, but I know my father was a good man, if a weak one. He was kind, and full of regret.

It sounds like cruelty came easily to your father. Was he often cruel?

Oh, happy belated Halloween.

Did you celebrate it as a child?

Mother indulged me with pumpkins she’d steal off the porches of the West Side parasites she cooked for. You know, the ones with staircases heaped with them. She’d sew my costume out of scraps and thrift store finds, even let me help. I made a rather natural vampire. And of course there would be fistfuls of candy she’d sneak into her purse.

There is candy in the block. Candy for leaving, candy for forgetting, candy for aching knees and restless nights.

This was the spiel through which I made the acquaintance of one mister Ogilvy. He was thrown into the laundry room in the most literal sense, with a bloody nose and mouth which he got all over the uniforms I’d just taken out of the dryer. When the COs and theirs batons left, the boy cursed and screamed himself hoarse, scaring away all of my tittering birds. When he was done with all that, I sat at the folding table (resting my leg, see) and told him to clean up the mess he’d made of an hour's work.

In hindsight, it was a gamble, perhaps an impulsive one, to speak to him like that. I've seen him weave himself in and out the card games of the old timers and even the rough games of rec yard basketball, tolerated if not accepted for his trade. I’m sure it helps to be as tall and wide as one of those football goons who made it a game to stuff me into lockers in school.

Maybe it's the scars. He has a set of deep grooves from cheek to mouth, old ones that have a grim backstory, no doubt, but he seems to be under the impression that this makes us kindred spirits.

Which is probably he asked if the scars hurt. No mockery, which was surprising. Still, he didn’t need to know anything about that ***** so I shrugged. He laughed, set his bloody nose in place with a crunch and another torrent of filth, and started redoing the sheets. As he did, he told me about the candy. Candy moves easy in every dark corner, every sleight of hand, and the gangs all have their buyers. Except the Lucky Hand and the Christians but they are just two different flavours of cult.

Candy is Ogilvy’s business. Or was, until he lost an important bag of candy for a dangerous customer because he was a rash, overambitious buffoon trying to run two deliveries at the same time. He’s lucky to have gotten off with just a beating and being demoted to laundry duty from commissary. 

He puts too much grease in his hair, most likely samples his merchandise and would pick a fight with a brick wall if left to his own devices. He reminds me of myself in my younger, more reckless days. Though Fish and my mother both would wash out my mouth with soap if I spoke like that. 

Ogilvy is looking for a partner or a buyer, and I don’t yet know enough about this particular bird or his wares to make a decision. In the meanwhile, he does have his uses. So far, he’s kept me apprised of some going-ons in exchange for cigarettes and bubblegum. Going-ons like the three phones circling through kitchen deliveries and a new cook-op where the candy-makers have a small blue eye tattooed on their inner lip.

He also has a candy connection with a CO Lark on the woman's side. I suspect there may be more than business there with his sudden interest and incessant questions about cologne and scents. Then again, I did give him a bit of a dressing down this morning for wearing this vile aftershave. My head hurts, has been hurting since I woke up. I don't know if it's my head or the eye and I am too tired to sort out the difference at this point.

Wine would be safer. I will not stoop to toilet wine just yet. Really, Ed, as if I would drink prison brew without overseeing the brewing process myself.  And yes, I know all about the botulism. It was a sloppy and frankly boring assassination job against some low-ranking Maroni cousins but the Chessmen on the job were prone to these sort of baroque schemes. The Vitali twins were Carmine’s nephews, thrice removed, so they were allowed their eccentricities but really, there are more surefire and intimidating ways to do the job. Like crushing glass into the meatball special for a little extra spice. Two words for you: internal hemorrhaging.

But yes, yes, I will keep away from the bad and dangerous wine.  If the urge or pain is strong enough, there  is communion wine in the prison chaplain’s office. Maybe I need to get rebaptized, as a sign of my “rehabilitation”. Mother would be shocked. No confessional for me, though. These letters are enough. My thoughts spill out here with mortifying honesty. It’s easier to write things down, I agree.

You didn’t blather. If it’s easier for you, too, to write down your thoughts in this place somewhere between conversation and record, please do. I assure you I will keep all of this in confidence. There are random searches of cells and of the inmates—climbing in and out of the ugly orange jumpsuit is an ordeal, for my knee and my sanity in this place—but I’ve managed to find a spot in the wall behind a vent cover that even the most diligent of Samson’s cronies have not. Not that this guarantees its safety either with the special attentions of my jailers but I’ve been making a small spectacle of ripping up envelopes and other letters.

I receive enough stupid correspondence as it is. Yours is the rare exception. I’m loath to destroy but if it comes to that, I’ve eaten worse things than crayon and paper.

I do reread it in the safety of lights out, and have done so just recently before coming to the library to refresh my mind for this reply. I’ve just been taking a meandering path to the darker turns of your letter.

I don’t know about useless emotions but I don’t want you to tie yourself in knots over this. I certainly do  not hold you responsible for my eye.

A lot has happened between us and I drew first blood, believe me I know that. And what about the games I played with your mind to get myself out of Arkham, after Sofia’s inevitable betrayal? I did that with eyes open. Maybe you’re paying the price for it now, stuck in that place and in that fog because of me. And I let Strange into your head and now you’ve been branded a mass murderer. Aren’t my hands bloody too? Bloodier, maybe.

When I saw the grenade, I acted. Maybe it was one last act of contrition in a doomed firefight or maybe I saw you scattered all over the barricades and couldn’t bear it. Or maybe it was just dumb animal instinct. Does it matter now? We both lived to fight another day and that’s enough for me.

If we’re asking uncomfortable questions, allow me one: Why did you come back to Gotham? You said you felt nothing for the people or the city you stood with. Sure, you could rule but that’s never held much appeal for you, especially not with the city in ruins, even now. And Nyssa steered the submarine away just fine on her own. Unless you're suggesting the dog had some hand in it.

So, why?

You could have had freedom and the guarantee of your life, far from the rot of the city and everything you’d suffered here, me included.

Be honest with yourself, if no one else. No quid pro quo here. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.

As for Edward, that dog had a very good life. He was a spoiled little beast but I like to think he’s a survivor, too. He’s surprised me with his practicality before and he went with you, in the end, with no fuss. I remember him happy to sleep and nap most of the day in his bed by my desk, with the sun coming in through the windows. He did always came sniffing when I’d take out the gun oil or the caviar.

Edward could be alive. This is Gotham. Unless we see a body…and even then, anything is possible.

I don’t blame you for him either. If you hadn’t returned, I don’t know if I’d have survived. I certainly wouldn’t have made it very far with my eye that way it was. You may argue that I wouldn’t have lost the eye at all if not for you but who’s to say? I might have been another casualty of Jim Gordon’s plan to take on an army with a handful of men.

You asked me once if I believed in fate. You smiled as you said it and I wanted to punch you, the strange man from the GCPD who wasn’t a cop and insisted on playing Mother’s songs. Maybe you saw it then, when I couldn’t. Now, I know our fates are linked, by choice and circumstance and maybe something older than that. There must be a reason that we keep finding ourselves here after all the betrayals and the blood, on opposite ends of the city but still connected. You’re not alone and you’re not useless, Ed. If you need reminding of that or anything else, I can do that. 

I've copied out the riddles from your first letter on the back of this page, to give you a clearer picture of what you’ve written. If you don't need them, tear this up. I personally have always found it more satisfying to set unhelpful things and people on fire but needs must. Ivy used to say letters and bodies best fed the plants. Maybe you will have your library  and a garden.

Oh, Ivy! She's what happened to the woman's wing. They smoked her out, hit her with enough darts to put down an infant rhinoceros and sent her here. She woke up as they were wheeling her in and a rather pernicious vine tunnelled out of the ground to do some damage to important parts of wall and fencing before they put her down again. The vine is supposedly at least five feet across and they haven’t figured out how to destroy or move it so it’s still there, seemingly alive and well despite the flamethrowers I saw the boys in blue bring in yesterday. This has of course led to other, more ridiculous rumours about a giant snake in the walls, not helped by the strange noises some of the men have been hearing, scratching and rustling through the vents.

They’re bringing more metas here by the day. There must be some facility, maybe underground or on the other side of the island. I managed to catch a glimpse of an unmarked van escorted by our very own commissioner of police. I think Jim’s trying to grow a moustache and it’s going hideously but I was pulled away from the hall window before I could get a proper look.

I suppose the fire did more damage to Arkham than I thought if they’re building a facility here instead of retrofitting Indian Hill. I wonder if it’s flooded. And if any of Strange’s “work” is still down there. Have you heard something? Is this why you asked about ghosts in your first letter? Is Dumpler a friend you’ve made?

Strange will by no means be a free man when I find him. If something can be done in spite of the optic nerve or whatever, then he shall do it on pains of a slow and painful death. When he's done his work, there will be slow and there will be painful. And an uncomfortable chair, a goodie bag of sharp things and maybe an old machine, if it’s still stashed where I think it is at the manor. One last appointment with the slippery doctor. Maybe we can open a bottle of wine and a vein or two. Get the spicy cabbage dumplings from Lucky Dragon, if it’s still standing.

Oh, what I would give for takeout. Or a croissant. Empire & Sons. Or Suns? I don't remember either but I do remember their pain au chocolat and game pies.

I don’t remember a garden at Arkham either but the city has changed so much. And now it’s left to the wolves. What a mess we’ll have on our hands when find our way into the light again.

I’m so glad to hear the reduction in dosage has yielded the results you were hoping for. Have you had any more sessions since? Has Quinzel continued to reduce the dosage?

I admit I’m surprised that Quinzel’s kept her word with the dosage. So far. Yet, your session sounds like it brought up some distressing things. I understand you want to clear the fog and you are being as vague you can be with her but if the price is your privacy and dignity, Ed, just. My turn to tell you to be careful, I suppose. But I also understand you must do what one can for sun and air.

I know I do.

Sunset is when I see Gotham across the river sometimes, if the fog clears by the time I emerge from laundry duty, eyes watering and hands fumbling for a cigarette. Even when I can’t see it, I feel the pull like a vein, like I did on the transport ferry. The metal of the chain link fence is cold and cuts into my hands and face, but I relish the sting. I can smell the river; it’s different now, more sterile, no doubt the result of Waynetech’s clean water program. We'll see how long Fox's idealism holds up against the city’s polluted march to progress. And our tendency to hide all manner of sins in the water.

Oh, but I miss it terribly. I miss the sandwich trucks with the messy lobster rolls and the kids betting their stolen treasures on craps in the narrow alleyways and the distant pop of gunshots and Roman candles. At least I can hear the sirens beyond the clang of buoys and the bellow of the ferries. And the lights, so many lights.

Blackgate Island, damned shores indeed. But somewhere across the way, a friend.

What are your days like? Do you miss the city? 

What do you look forward to doing with your freedom? It's a matter of when and not if, I promise you that.

Ogilvy is standing in front of the shatterproof glass doors of the library, waving his hands. I told him to wash off the aftershave and bring me something substantial about the women’s wing. Perhaps he’s listened and our plans will be in motion sooner than I thought. I will finish here and drop off the envelope to the mail cart, and see if he's discovered anything useful. If not, I may just break his nose again for good measure and then have him find me a candle for Mother. I'll need salt, bread and water, too. Two days late but I want to honour her even in this small way, lest she come back to haunt me for forgetting.

I've been having nightmares again, the ones where she dies in my arms over and over. Lend me one of your mundane dreams. I'll take ironing or Mother's strawberry soup on hot summer days or a long endless bath. I'm sorry you're feeling nauseous. To have ginger tea with honey by a fireplace again, free and on top of the world.

Ogilvy is now slowly banging his bruised and taped up face on the glass, and the librarian, Pinkman, is glaring between us. Let's hope the idiot boy hasn't cost me my quiet sanctuary.

I will tell you again to be careful, or as careful as you can be. After all, no risk, no reward. 

And yes, no fools.

Your friend, always,

Oswald Cobblepot

P.S. Oh yes, before I forget, your notes are on the next page.

**_*As_ ** ~~ **_demanded_**~~ ** _requested,_ ** **_notes for my self-ascribed field medic:_ **

    * The scarring is at parts sensitive and numb. There’s pain sometimes, when I take off the patch for the night, but overall, it’s more of a constant…awareness of something that was there once. I’ve heard of this happening with limbs. Phantom eye? It’s been more than a month but when I look in the mirror, I still expect to see both of them.
    * The depth perception issues continue but I’m sure you knew that. The brace has been holding thanks to your master craftsmanship but I should like my cane back. It would help to measure the distance of how far things are and to have a proper knife again would be something. I’m being careful not to knock into the sharks. They give me a wide berth, more so now with Ogilvy prowling nearby as I sit in the yard.
    * I’ve been doing Lee’s exercises, yes, every morning and every night. I lie on the thin, hard cot and dart my eye around the lines of the crack in the ceiling.
    * And it’s Dr. Thompkins now, is it? Surely, you two are on more familiar terms than that.
    * I’ll try my best not to spare you these details, if that is what you want.
    * Be well, Ed.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and thoughts are welcome and appreciated ♡


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